๑(Before Sunrise)๑
by xXxJazzy B. RealxXx
Summary: Love was a plot-hole. Although trains came and went, plans changed, planets collided, and that gap between thoughts and desires shrank into a dotted line, their pseudo-cynicism always stopped their "could-be's" from becoming "something more's." Yet no matter how rational we think we are, we all hate waking up at sunrise; some of us will spend a lifetime just trying to sit up.
1. ๑ I N T R O D U C T I O N ๑

__(Revised Edition)__

**_\|/.✸.\|/_**

**BEFORE SUNRISE**

**by**

** Flynn Rider**

****.✸.****

**. . . . .**

**. . . .**

**. . . **

**. .**

** _\|.✸.|/_**

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><p><span><strong>Disclaimer<strong>

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><p><em>Any resemblance between the characters and real persons, living, or dead, is a coincidence. Any similitude between literary events and real happenings is a miracle.<em>

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><p><strong>TABLE OF CONTENTS <strong>.✸.<strong>**  
><strong>**

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><p><em>Introduction<em>

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><p>Opening: <strong>The Boy Who Trapped Sunlight<strong>

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><p>Act I: <strong>I Am Free, That is Why I Am Lost <strong>

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><p>Act II: <strong>Rainbows in Grayscale<strong>

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><p>Act III: <strong>IfThen**

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><p>Act IV: <strong>Evening OST: Some Other Me<strong>

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><p>Act V: <strong>People Can Invent the Best and the Worst for You<strong>

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><p>Act VI: <strong>The Environment is Stronger than the People<strong>

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><p>Act VII: <strong>The Veins in Your Palm Are Fault-lines<strong>

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><p>Act VIII: <strong>But You Have Stars Under Your Skin<strong>

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><p>Act IX: <strong>And Your Delusions Are Always Rational <strong>

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><p>Act X: <strong>So Photograph Yesterday for Tomorrow <strong>

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><p>Act XI: <strong>Because All Cynics Are Idealists<strong>

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><p><strong><em><strong> _\|.✸.\|/_**_**

**_ Introduction_**

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><p><em>"I made a plan to keep you like they did in the movies or songs. <em>

_I had given you my past and my prettiest thoughts, but I left the rest at the station and when you left that morning, my thoughts have been so ugly ever since." _**~*birdbones**__

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><p>I always wanted topen a love story that<em> "all took place within the time span of a pop song."<em> Love is a prescription drug for those who can't cope with reality — and believing _in_ love might be the first sign of a chemical imbalance, _(please make an appointment if you've experienced vertigo or depression) —_ but a book can make it anything you want it to be.

Salvation.

Demise.

Revelation.

Perversion.

It really all depends on the style of the illusion. Every once in a while, you might even stumble on a story that looks like it's made out of the same organic matter you are. We've all met someone at the book store, the coffee shop, the community college, or a popularly hated job. But how can a writer orchestrate a _natural disaster_? Do they personalize it — or do they fabricate it? Does the romance need to provide substance or stardust? Actually, you need to make it seem like Earth's tectonic plates rammed, broke, and shifted into erratic directions under the feet of two earthquake victims; probably sweep them down a tsumani wave, too. So let's sensationalize the shit out of this:

This is the story of a man and a woman who openly agreed that relationships were plot holes. Although a train came and went, plans changed, planets collided, _seismic waves_ shook them up, and that gap between thoughts and desires shrank into a dotted line, their pseudo-cynicism always stopped their "_could-be's"_ from becoming "_something more's."_ They were too rational for that little plot-bunny, they boasted; too _grown. _Basking in the luxury of conversation, champagne, and room service in Norway is easy, but trying to blind the sun and take down the stars just to bring your planets a little closer together isn't.

The trouble with romantic chemistry is that it's more of an _astral experience_ than it is a co-written screenplay; at least the latter has a pre-planned process with a contract attached. The former can neither be prevised nor methodized — only felt in the atmosphere by the people in question — and its leads will either seek to rationalize it or edit it. In consequence, the affair between them remained recklessly akin to,_ "a collision of waves rising and falling, at flux and reflux, against a ridge of rocks and shelves, which confines the water so that it precipitates itself like a cataract; and thus the higher the flood rises, the deeper must the fall be, and the natural result of all is a whirlpool or vortex; a prodigious suction only known by few individuals."_

Now, that's really only the cosmology of this _Big-Bang_, but that's not the story. The story is — no matter how rational we think we are — we all hate waking up at sunrise; most of us will spend half a lifetime just trying to sit up.

So let's play pretend...

* * *

><p><em>"It's funny, the way you've affected me; you've written all over my heart. In ink. Unerasable, unchangeable. And now the ink is spilling out of my fingers, onto the page, in messy words that just keep trying to tell the perfect story.<em>

[And I'll keep trying.]"

**~*aprilwednesday, "Love Letter to the Future."**

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><p><strong> . .<strong>

** . .**

** . .**

_~❆ SPECIAL THANKS ❆~_

_To Starbucks and the manufacturers of aspirin pills. ✌_

**_~Flynn Rider ✸_**

** . .**

** . .**

** . .**

**๑۩۩๑**


	2. ๑ Editor's Note ๑

**_\|.✸.|/_**

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><p><em>~❆ <strong>Editor's Note<strong> ❆~_

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><p><strong><em><strong>"Before Sunrise"<strong>_ **is one of four _re-adaptation_ requests after the posting of _Crossover Wut's_, and it is a little bit of an unorthodox request.

* * *

><p>Many films and TV shows will inspire the premise of fictions I've botched before, some with quotes and excerpts to evidence their references, but I've rarely used the roles of actors <em>(not since who knows, at least)<em>.

My role in all this instructs that I mustn't **delete** the plot or reject half the dialogue, but that I may completely alter scenarios, settings, speech, pacing, subplots, and fabricate the story separately to give it independence. I suppose movie directors would call that a re-adaptation, so think _The Karate Kid 2010_ vs _The Karate Kid 1984_, but mainly view this as an expertiment.

Outside of the very setup, I have changed events into a book of _(utterly purple-prose)_ writing by "Flynn Rider," and the excerpt you read in his introduction was original. Given his foreword, you must decide whether to believe his book is 100% true, whether he's an unreliable writer, or if his version of what happened is predominantly **wish-fulfillment**; to be aware of these possibilites is **very important**, and he hinted that you should be.

_It's Okay, That's Love_ will have this same "editor's" note.

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><p>❄<strong> Main FrozenTangled Canon Differences **✸

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><p>These differences are in the background of the novel, so they are hardly mentioned at all, and I'd rather not have anyone <em>"caught off guard."<em>

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><p><span><strong> Character A:<strong> Elsa (Frozen)

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><p>.❄.<strong><strong> Age: <strong>**23

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><p>In the novel's depiction, she had been allowed to grow up unrestricted and independent with a liberal mind, a true 21st century woman with controversial principles about <em>female<em> expression. You can neither look to this as your canon template nor expect it to cater to your _Elsa_ bias _(or perhaps you could, but it doesn't fully cater to mine)_. Consequently, she has some insecurities under her status, along with experiences and flaws that will be familiar to us. In spite of that, you are getting a happy woman who had a happy upbringing with _"the wind and sky_" in her heart.

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><p><strong><span>Character B:<span>** Eugene (Tangled)

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><p>.✸. <strong>Age: <strong>28

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><p>Eugene is written as his true self without a facade or hustle, but he still has some insecurities under that occupational hazard <em>(being yourself is a full time job, after all)<em>. He also retains some quirks that show his insecurity - like theatricality, pseudo-intellectualism and wit to make him more "impressive" than he really is. Like canon, there's still that, _"I'm not enough"_ feeling in him - just as it was in _**Broken Ace**_ Elsa of Frozen.

Still, the main difference between this and canon is the fact that they're open and receptive to the world at large, consciously assertive in their desire for intimate acceptance in all they are, and intellectualize personal experiences via conversation to build connections, be that with the "wind and the sky" or other people, so these aren't the pussyfooting, _avoidant_ byproducts of solitary lifestyles.

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><p>.❄.<strong> Norway <strong>.✸.

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><p>As an American, I have never been; I don't profess to know everything about the country or the culture, especially not from bird's view, so some inaccuracies will be present.<p>

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><p>.✸. <strong>Footnote <strong>.✸.

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><p>❄ Keep in mind that you are still getting a romance from an adult man's perspective; the rating may climb, <em>"male gaze"<em> may prevail, and many of the conversations will feature mature subjects.

Also — whenever I have a Modern AU, I associate Elsa or Eugene with the mannerisms of Idina Menzel and Zachary Levi, _(which they have regardless, since that's what they were animated to have _[Jennifer Lee outright calls Idina and Elsa, "shy and reserved, but actually larger-than-life"]_, __but there's more influence here)_.

My _Modern Elsa's_ or _Eugene'_s are ***vastly*** different from my canon portrayals **(of their values)**, but if you hear Zac's or Idina's voices, then hurrah! Their _Broadway_ professions gave some inspiration.


	3. ๑ O P E N I N G ๑

**_.✸._**

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><p><strong><em>Opening:<em>**

**AN ODE TO THE BOY WHO TRAPPED SUNLIGHT**

* * *

><p><strong>_\|.✸.|_**

* * *

><p><strong>.i.<strong>

_when I was 9, someone dissected the world in front of me,_

_showed me it was a living, wanting thing,_

_and that I was just a lonely cell, functioning through my dysfunction_

**.i.**

_I have a headache and not enough time to explain the irony of how_

_I want to be every pretentious poet making art out of themselves,_

_cutting open their side and writing in blood and pixie dust;_

**.i.**

_The future has already been written, and I'm stuck here,_

_trying to paint unbeautiful things and make poems out of dirt and relapses_

**.i.**

_understand the significance,_

_of your insignificance_

_and separate_

_from the warmth of human comprehension_

**.i.**

_Acquire talents for:_

_narcissism, eloquence,_

_self-aggrandizement, denial,_

_and holding my liquor._

**.i.**

_"Curing Depression in Seven Easy Steps / __honesty isn't a weakness." __~***intricately-ordinary**_

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><p><strong>_\|.✸.|_**

* * *

><p>From the time he was abandoned on the porch of a children's home to the time he exited the stage of <em>Broadway<em>, he felt "other."

_ "He's a wonderful actor."_

_ "Perfect at improvisational theatre."_

_ "Brilliant company for witty and entertaining conversation."_

_ "But the public doesn't feel like he's the aristocratic Prince Charming he pretends to be; according to the tabloids, his past is a filthy one."_

He was deserted at birth by impoverished parents on the patio of a _**Kinderheim** (1)_, exteriorizing the _sob story_ of a homeless child who struggled to find his place among one hundred children sharing sixty-five beds. His group home propagated that it, _"provided a safety net for children to experience trusting relationships with peers and adults," _but what he, like all orphans experienced, was a confined existence where life came down to the constant questioning of one's self-worth. Ostracized from family and society, his kind was "destined" to be neglected by the state as _"unwanted human beings"_ well into adulthood, and his lifestyle reminded him every day that the last letters of his _**Fitz**(2)-_prefixed name stood for **_"bastard son" _**in_ Anglo-Norman _language.

In keeping with these circumstances, he became the stereotypical loner at the back of a cupboard, avoiding the testosterone-fueled activities of rougher boys as he pressed his thumbs into the pages of paperback novels; content to call _heroic rogues_ his friends when no one else accepted him. Living in his head was a mode of life after stories began to fill an emptiness that housed none. There was just something in those _fantasy books_ ― something in the magical illustrations of daring men, gorgeous sorceresses, romantic rescues, lofty castles, and swishing swords ― that made him want to dive between the letters of the word _"fearless"_ and emerge a crystallized man of _invincibility._

...A man who could rescue _himself_._  
><em>

He found little need to entertain any _moldy_ corner of depression by replacing it with this outsized optimisim. Like _Peter Pan_ with his shadow, he spent long nights sewing himself whole with these cerebral adventures, taking on a lightweight attitude as his best defense against feeling like _damaged goods_. Growing up determined to drive a chariot of seven swans like a _Apollo_ instead of some beaten down wagon of vandalized self-confidence, he philosophized that all obstacles in life could be smoothened over if you edited out what didn't suit your ideal self-image.

In his mind, here was a boy who refused to play the angsty role of his own story; a moping downer who couldn't pull himself up by the bootstraps or fight to co-write his own ending; _tears be damned_, he'd have a hand in his self-production. His active, imaginative mind went in full swing and brainstormed over creating better plot development within his own life. Understaffed handlers began housebreaking his bursts of spontaneity as his plot schemes thickened; younger boys began surrounding his lap of books like swallows in a nest when he read to them. They chirped about how they liked him because he had the shining eyes of christmas lights whenever he became a _swashbuckler_ instead of _Eugene Fitzherber_t, a person the older teens called an androgynous, cowardly, oversensitive "**_Hündin_** (3)" with the surname _"bastard son." _

During the sixth year of his childhood, his plot derailed when he was thrown into the foster care system, a page in life he wished to rip out. Most caregivers seemed to be looking for a check instead of a child, others wanted to smother, change, or take physical advantage of him, but he suffered a slideshow of monthly rotations regardless of how nice or nasty they were. Fitting in with the cagey, dispassionate customs of _German_ culture was difficult enough, but this state of never staying in one home, let alone _belonging_ ― neither inside the group home nor the state-crefitied households ― repeated the pain and trauma he had already experienced with his biological family.

As a result, he developed the terrible habit of acting out and running away from foster homes as a defense against the fear that a new family wouldn't love him, being disobedient to stomach the reality that they didn't ― and never could ― provide him with a _real_ home. In his mind, it was simply a _cold-hard fact_ that he could not and _would not_ count on anyone but himself.

Over the eighteen months that followed, an unexpected family presented themselves to the youth office as American novelists who wanted to adopt him. The husband reminded him of a _Hamlet_ character, but the woman was a conservative _Joan of Arc_, openly gushing:

_"He reminds me of the best literary character of all time: **Huckleberry Finn**."_

His other foster parents often trashed his theatrics, but this new set wanted to nurture it like a flower. After adopting him into _U.S._ citizenship, they made outrageous promises to take him to their self-proclaimed titleholder of storybook magic:

_ "Bergen, Norway; a person can reinvent the stories in the wastelands of their own heart there. It's such an inspiring little place! It will awaken and inspire you to champion your own kind of storybook."_

He never tired of hearing about _Bergen_ or the landmarked stories that inspired their books, and they never tired of hearing about his fairytales...but as weeks turned into seasons, the house they shared quickly became an incubator of family tension, and dynamics changed for the worse. In-laws began to sway their feelings about the adoption by constantly billboarding his flaws and deficiencies whenever he fell short in character, and his adoptive parents started to treat him like a broken teapot that couldn't be repaired.

_"At one point, you were a golden vase..."_

Reliving flashbacks of foster care, he tried to shimmy on the costume of _the ideal child_, rummaging for anything outstanding in himself that might win him permanent validation. He longed to be a pillar of pride and appreciation for them, to be the boy that they could boast about and ― _in that way_ ― love_, _because having someone boast about you and _how perfect you were_ meant they loved you ― at least _that_ you, which was better than no part at all.

Behind the double-edged sword of not showing them ― _or anyone_ ― his true self, he often wondered whether they _really loved him_, whether they really _accepted_ _him_, but the more his efforts gained positive reception, the more he believed that this was the dynamic to crusade for with other people. He felt early on that social interaction and relationship success amounted to selling one's self like a product, so whether as the school fencer, agile acrobat, or witty wordsmith of _Drama Class_, he turned life into a performance art.

Under his own orchestration, he anatomized, re-designed, and polished his shiniest traits by throwing his more docile, down-to-earth, and insecure personality to the wayside, skeletonizing himself into the crystallized man of _invincibility_ he always wanted to become. His fascination and expertise with flossing his own characterization made him particularly good at writing short films and school plays, most notably his rendition of _Rapunzel_, which he squeezed a spot in as _Prince Charming_. Through these coliseums, he found a _solid marble_ footing in theatre, emerged a starlet, and conquered the face of the _Broadway_.

But there's a downside to becoming that famous ― _or that loved_ ― over an identity that's not real...

For him, life _became_ the storybook, a mode of_ life _imitating_ art _instead of_ art _imitating_ life. _He psychologically inhabited a fake, cardboard world where the sky couldn't crack and the stagelight was the sunlight. _The swashbuckler _of_ Broadway _had approached his entire existence like an actor: feeling employed by family, friends, and lovers to portray a character based solely on perfection. Though quite a spirited soul with much affability, he never missed an opportunity to rant about how "special" he was. But the man didn't self-objectify and showboat himself as _the ideal art piece_ just because he could, he did it because the behavior was a by-product of the defense mechanism both he and his peers enabled when he was a child.

However, he was always more about the _special effects_ in life than any sort of originality or raw emotion; that equated a vulnerability and self-confrontation the twenty-three year old had been groomed to avoid. Becoming particularly materialistic and _money-hungry_ as a side-effect was his way of associating wealth with an emotional void-filler, a type of safety-net that could bring betterment, happiness, and self-satisfaction to overcompensate for having _nothing_ and _no one_ as a boy.

When the curtains dropped and he had to trudge back to _Eugene Fitzherbert_ ― the proclaimed "bastard child" from _Krautland _(4), snowballing into a whirlwind of erratic trysts offered a break from what was failing in his private life. His normal personality put off every frivolous partner he had, but his stage presence personified a man married women fantasized in their husbands: a charismatic, carefree _adventurer_ who could not only _steal them away _from life, but take on any emotional block like a true _Renaissance_ man who couldn't be tainted by hardship ― one that was seemingly_ tailor-made_ to appeal to the estrogen crowd.

Women offered him the very light of their eyes under these false pretenses; they gazed at him with that admiring, infatuated look of pure wanting and love. It was then not so much the intimacy he liked ― but the fleeting touches of someone emphasizing that, for once, he was utterly and unconditionally _wanted_ by them. _Appreciated_, if only for a role in some grand musical.

_ "It's sad, but it's far easier to remember his stage name than it is his real one, which sounded pretty deprecative on its own..."_

Playing **_The Swashbuckling Rogue_** of the hit-trilogy _"**Step Into the Sunshine**"_ stopped 'stopping' at "curtain call." Over time, he _stopped_ being himself off stage and _stopped_ being able to form an honest connection with anyone. It was comparable to being a smiling, wax _Ken Doll_ inside a lonely box with a plastic sheet of film between himself and the world, living under a manufactured, single expression since creation.

To pop the plastic and break the fantasy would've broken blood vessels along with it. Too many people reacted like customers who'd just bought a beautiful vase...― only to realize after it'd been taken home that it had cracks, soot, and spiderwebs at the bottom, and he couldn't handle being refunded to the junkyard. His biological parents already did that.

_ "Do you ever get tired of cosplaying as a lie every night?"_

One morning, he crawled out of bed and faced the mirror to feel his face. His countenance still belonged to the award-winning _Broadway_ star, the desired heartthrob whose smile was plastered everywhere in _New York_, but he, as himself, had nothing _and no one. _He'd accompished nothing; earned nothing; overcame nothing. He acquired all this money ― _and all this fame_ ― and _still_ felt empty, still _felt dirty _and_ moldy_, with that ever-persistent void still beating far and wide between his ribs like the deformed organ in his chest_._

"_Do you ever wonder what it takes to feel whole?"_

As his cardboard world began to collapse on top of him, **_Broadway for Charity_** was pitched by both his agent and his adoptive mother when he became too aloof from social events. According to the latter's efforts to cheer him up, _Broadway for Charity_ was sponsoring an organization called **_Lost Boys_** for children who had a sweet-tooth for theatre, films, and novels, many keeping classics like _**The Neverending Story, Lord of the Flies, The Hobbit**,_ and **_Narina_** in the back of their _cupboards_.

He scrolled down the webpage of the organization in the darkness of his condo, finding out more about its _Neverland_ theme through its porfolio. Website photos were posted with disclaimers for a gallery of abandoned boys and at-risk youth in urban communities who were being housed in group homes. Each child was an "unwanted human being" who'd missed out on family life ― the love that only a biological parent could give, but the staff members didn't try to delude them from that fact.

Floored, he went through the motions of stage rehearsal in a sort of trance the next day. His contributions to _Lost Boys_ started discreetly, but the children replied with letters expressing how much they idolized him, how often they tuned in on his live performances and mimicked his scenes. He mustered all of his courage to visit the residential facility after sleepless nights of _yes_ and _no_; to experience it, to actually be in the meat of it and see how _his_ privileges affected _their_ lives. If there was one thing that could melt his mask like _mac n' cheese_, it was the toothy smiles of sequestered children.

With a hesitant opening, he introduced himself to the youth center rather humbly, requesting a round of applause for the volunteers and staff members who'd done their best to make a special place for _lost boys_ to feel loved and accepted. The younger boys showered him with affection, and for a reason he couldn't understand, he felt more at home with them than any of the socialites in his life. They became an escapade from his facade, from the artificial life he led, and in him, they found a platform for their own voices to stand on.

Such broken faces were far more deserving of a fairy-tale ending than any of the one-dimensional swashbucklers he read about as a child, and he wanted to make them feel like they could be seen, heard, and acknowledged; to confirm that they _mattered, _and that yes, they _could _rescue themselves_._ They didn't have to wait for a hero; they could become the hero. This need to father their dreams ― and damn near call their lonely his family ― almost blotted out his initial desires as a stage-player, which was fast becoming unfulfilling. What he really wanted was his own pen and paper; that seemed to be what they wanted, too. His body exited the facility with tingling fingers and goosebumps as he smiled at his the car window, thinking with his thumb between his teeth:  
><em><br>__'I could write stories for those boys...'_

When he visited the boys for the fifth time, he sat on the floor with them and read a ten-paged children's book from his own divining. However, he didn't so much tell the story as he did act it out; making melodramatic sounds, taking large intakes of startled breath, inventing and improvising scenarios as he received well-timed gasps from the laughing boys. The staff prided him on his ability to create whimsical, unreal worlds from oral speech because he was so fun and lively, and he pledged to use the friendly face of his sociable personality to bring awareness to _Lost Boys_ as a public speaker.

The sixth visit he made was kicked off with a quote from his book: _"Life is what you make it. If this life isn't the one you want, then the good part is that you get to find a new dream. Just let it go, and turn away and slam the door."_

The boys were asked to show their thanks in return, and it was the first time he'd been told, _"I love you because of your spirit and your heart."_

The round of applause that ensued shook and warmed his bones, while the burning sting behind his eyelids blinded him from everything he'd done prior to this experience...  
><em><br>This is when you stop loving the mask you can never take off._

And that _Swashbuckling Rogue_ was no longer enough.

From the time he was abandoned on the porch of a children's home to the time he abandoned the stage of _Broadway_, he vowed to pick up his own pen and become whole.

_ "...__It will awaken and inspire you to champion your own kind of storybook__."_

* * *

><p><strong>_\|.✸.|_**

* * *

><p><strong>ii.<strong>

_Cry for the inevitable; the way my family never loved me right_

_Talk about the emptiness_

_inside of me and all the things I tried_

_to fill it up with;_

_become a writer, instead._

**ii.**

_"__Before I Can Become a Writer," _**_~*intricately-ordinary_**

* * *

><p><strong>_\|.✸.|_**

* * *

><p><strong>GLOSSARY<strong>

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><p>(1) <em>Kinderheim:<em> German for "children's home."

(2) _Fitz:_ bastard (illegitimate) son.

(3) _Hündin:_ German for "bitch."

(4) _Krautland:_ an offensive term for "Germany," usually to demean someone by claiming they have "Nazi ancestry."


End file.
